TF Drabble Dump
by 666CrescentMoonDemon666
Summary: Miscellaneous transformers drabbles, mostly just smut, fluff, nsfw, and all that stuff. Will include various pairings from Transformers Prime verse (TFP), IDW Comic verse (MTMTE, RID, etc.), and such. Current pairings include Drift/Perceptor, Whirl/Cyclonus, Rung/Fortress Maximus, Rodimus/Ultra Magnus, Cyclonus/Tailgate, Quark/Nightbeat.
1. MTMTE – Drift&Perceptor

Prompts and suggestions for this dump are encouraged and _greatly appreciated!_ Just please keep in mind that all suggestions are subject to the discretion of the author, so please don't be upset if you suggest something and I decide not to use it. I love you though!

To be updated whenever I get inspiration for something, so don't hold your breath.

* * *

**Pairing:** Drift/Perceptor

**Summary:** Pretty much just fluff smut. Robots making love.

**Rating:** M (smut, sticky, fluff, NSFW)

[Flips desk and jumps on bandwagon, "Because why the fuck not?"]

* * *

"P-Perceptor," Drift stammered, faceplates heated and flush as his lover laid atop him, slowly rocking between his splayed, shaking thighs. His vents hitched, clamping a digit between his dentas to stifle a desperate moan.

A soft smile curved Perceptor's lips, admiring the trembling beauty beneath him. He laid a kiss against Drift's brow down the tip of his nose, across his cheek and up to the very tip of his finial, radiating heat and a faint pink hue flush with energon. 'Cute' was perhaps the most underused word in Perceptor's entire considerable vocabulary; after all, there were far more befitting terms to describe the sultry mech squirming and clutching and moaning underneath him, but with the pleasant haze of static gradually clouding his processor, it was as good a description as any.

Perceptor allowed his lips to linger at the corner of his lover's mouth, cycling warm air slowly through his cooling vents, rocking his hips at just the right rhythm to drag out the pleasure and turn Drift into that whining, quivering mess he loved so much. Drift took the invitation and latched onto Perceptor in a needing, lusty kiss, deep and desperate and so, so sweet. Mmmm, he certainly knew how to make this difficult for the sniper, but Perceptor was nothing if not patient and resourceful.

Knowing black digits ghosted across the white plating of Drift's chassis, skimming over sensitive divots and grooves and dipping into transformation seams long-since memorized, helm ducked into the gap between his neck and shoulder to kiss and nibble the tender cables there. Drift cried out, clenching tightly into Perceptor's back and rocking his hips up, moaning his name over and over right beside his dark audial. Perceptor could only smile faintly and trail kisses all along the swordmech's throat, hooking a servo under one of his knees and lifting it up over his arm, rewarding his lover with a slightly quicker, deeper pace that had Drift a molten puddle of mindless ecstasy beneath him.

Perceptor loved nothing more than to see his lover in pleasure like this. It gave him peace to watch those optics dim with such raw, unadulterated delight, no matter the torturous and teasing ways he wrung it from him. Drift's lips parted and arched his helm back, moaning out Perceptor's name as he clutched their bodies together, thrusting and grinding, metal scalding to the touch with the steady build of their combined charges. It cracked Perceptor's resolve a bit, just enough for him to lean in and steal another kiss from his lover who was all too happy to return it tenfold.

Somewhere amid Drift's pleading moans and Perceptor's slow, deliberate thrusts, Perceptor found himself on his back, treated to the luscious sight that was the divine white mech seated atop him, straddling and grinding hard enough for black paint to flake off the scientist's hip plates and mar his immaculate interface array. Perceptor allowed himself a deeper breath and quiet moan, making a note to help Drift clean himself off in the washracks later. The sound did not go unnoticed, and Drift pitched forward, digits scraping down Perceptor's chest and scuffing the glass there, and a particularly hard thrust pushed his spike deep into Drift's clenched valve and struck one of his best sensory nodes. Drift moaned loudly and repeated the hard thrusts over and over, the heat of their charges no longer able to be dispelled by their cooling vents alone.

Knowing Drift didn't have long, Perceptor decided to give him what he so desperately needed. He pulled himself up and slipped a hand behind Drift's helm, drawing him down into a hot, passionate kiss, the other snaking behind the swordmech's back as he grabbed Perceptor with both servos and deepened the exchange lustily. Perceptor managed to get some leverage around Drift's needy, frantic hips and thrust into him roughly, hard and deep. Drift threw his helm back, crying his lover's name, but Perceptor brought his lips back to quiet him, driving into that tight, spasming valve fast, deep, crashing their bodies together like it was their last day alive.

Overload crashed over them in unison, Drift's shrill, blissful keen like music to Perceptor's ears. His valve clenched tightly and stroked around the sniper's thick spike, milking him of his overload as he released a hot rush of transfluid deep into his lover's body, a strangled gasp ringing hard as a gong strike in his Spark chamber. Drift's spike spasmed and emptied against Perceptor's abdomen, both mechs struck by the wash of unimaginable ecstasy.

Drift melted into his front, utterly spent as Perceptor laid back, content to wrap him up in his arms and lie there with Drift forever, savoring the physical connection as much as the psychological one. It was so rare that the two got to share a glorious romp like this nowadays; Rodimus kept them both busy with their respective duties, so Perceptor was just glad to have his lover in his arms again, wishing he could never let him go.

He hummed softly when Drift stirred, somewhat recovered from his daze, and looked up at the scientist with the most gorgeous smile, blue optics dim, tired, and so very comfortable. He leaned up and Perceptor was more than happy to oblige Drift with his favorite, long, post-interface kiss: sweet, drawn-out, and radiating everything that was good in the galaxy. Perceptor smiled and offlined his optics, holding his lover close, and cherished the little pleasantries whenever they presented themselves.


	2. MTMTE – Whirl&Cyclonus

**Pairing:** Whirl/Cyclonus

**Summary:** Whirl loses a bet; Cyclonus just wants him to be quiet.

**Rating:** M (D/s, light bondage, _sticky_, NSFW, hate sex(?))

[Whirl's a showboating little shit (and hella fun to write), but he strikes me as the kind of mech who might enjoy getting the ever living scrap fragged out of him once in a while. Inspired by fanart from the amazing felixfellow (of Tumblr)!]

* * *

"C'mon, you old scrapheap, I've seen insecticons frag with more coordination than you," Whirl goaded, pitching back against the servo shoving his helm into the berth.

Cyclonus growled and tightened his hold around the ex-Wrecker's neck, outright demanding him to just shut up. A sharp thrust did stop his rambling for a moment, vocalizers rent to a burst of static as Cyclonus pounded into the lanky blue mech on his knees before him.

"I wish you had a mouth," Cyclonus grated, digging his claws into Whirl's thigh for leverage and to further spread his legs, forcing him lower. He grunted at the valve tightening around his spike, making each thrust a challenge he was more than willing to meet. "Then I could weld it shut."

"_Nph,_ that's a low blow, Con—_nghh_!"

Whirl's pincers clenched, bound tight behind his back and twisted and wrenched to no avail. His militancy snuffed by the restraints, Whirl kept jabbing and prodding at Cyclonus verbally; that was, whenever he could get words to form amidst the Con's violent thrusts. It was all he could do to keep from purring at the rough treatment, because there was no way in all the Pit Whirl was going to let the fragger know just how badly he was getting off on this. How Cyclonus had taken measures to make certain there would be no confrontation here; the restraints revved his engine so hard it was a struggle to keep it down. Sharp claws dug into his seams and dragged across his plates leaving gouges in the metal and a light trickle of energon staining his berth, a slick trail of lubricant running down between his thighs. If anyone asked later, they'd sparred.

Frag, Whirl needed to lose his own bets more often. Who knew the old slagger could be such a brute in the berth. That thick spike plunging inside him, dragging and grinding over every node, claws sunk into his narrow hips and digging his helm into the berth to stifle his incessant babbling, it was a wonder Whirl could keep it together at all.

"_Ah,_ come on you stupid Con," he mocked, "iszat the best you can do—? _Nnh_!"

"Shut. _Up_." Cyclonus snarled, closing his fist harder around the mech's narrow neck and trying to strangle him quiet.

But Whirl seemed able to answer the abuse by turning the same treatment back on Cyclonus's spike, squeezing and clenching rhythmically and with far more power than Cyclonus originally anticipated. Nn, slag, he'd be lying if he said it didn't feel incredible how tight he was. He was a surprisingly great frag. It was so, so satisfying to dominate Whirl like this, and the more he did the better the other seemed to respond. Mmm, so he was into this kind of thing, was he?

Cyclonus smirked to himself and adjusted his grip to force the underside of Whirl's helm flat on the berth. He realigned his hips, dug his claws into a spindly blue thigh, and brought him back to meet his thrusts while the ex-Wrecker squirmed, cursing and mocking until a series of sharp lunges turned him to a mess of quivering stutters and whines. Cyclonus leaned down beside his helm, putting his full weight over his back just to feel him shake.

"I'll teach you the value of submission, Whirl," Cyclonus growled low, letting the sound reverberate through his chassis and into the shivering helicopter. He wrapped his servo beneath his throat, squeezing it until the light of his optic flickered.

"_Mmnph,_ give it your best shot," Whirl muttered, more of a desperate keen by now but still very much a challenge, "f-fragger."

There it was, that crack in his façade. Excellent. Cyclonus stayed in place, weighing down against the lighter mech to remind him of his place, claws flexed around his throat. He snuck a hand beneath Whirl's knee joint and jerked it up, slamming his hips forward and pounding viciously into the mech's clenching valve. This close, he could hear the little grunts and whines that didn't quite make it out; Cyclonus could feel the engine rumble stifled down in the ex-Wrecker's chassis, and that simply wouldn't do. Talons raked gashes across the inside of his thigh and plucked the ridges of his neck plating, glossa trailing up his long nape and relishing in the mindless shudders he earned, the low guttural moans timed perfectly to his thrusts.

Cyclonus went on pounding into him with abandon, snarling into his audial. Whirl pitched back against the thrusts each time, not to dislodge him like before but to meet Cyclonus pound-for-vicious-pound, taking his spike deeper, harder until his back was dented and his valve was sore. His goading jeers soon swapped out for pleas, alternating between begging "yes, yes, _ah,_ deeper, _please, yes_!" and demanding "faster, harder, yes _ngh_ that's it, fragger, that's _it_!" and giving Cyclonus just enough flak to egg him on, to keep him _going_. Frag, he wasn't going to be able to walk right for a week, _nnnngh!,_ and he _loved_ it.

Claws dug hard around Whirl's neck as the electricity of their charges built up higher and higher, cresting to a peak, and Whirl went over first. Systems seized up and clenched hard, virtually howling as he arched back into Cyclonus's hammering spike, optic flickering while his Spark flared and the overload dragged out torturously. Cyclonus went on, thrusting powerfully and holding tight, then sunk his digits into Whirl's already damaged hip, bruising his ceiling node with the depth of his final plunge, and emptied into that tight, spasming valve with a bestial snarl.

Cyclonus released him slowly once the haze cleared and righted himself. He took a moment to admire his handiwork in the stunned, trembling mech before him. Sets of vicious claw marks marred every surface of light blue hide, spattered with and still leaking energon in places, and riddled with dents and dings that Ratchet would undoubtedly chew him out for and get suspicious about later. Cyclonus smirked and pulled out once Whirl's valve relaxed and savored the view. A mix of transfluid and lubricant rushed out and down the middle of his thighs in excess, valve twitching and empty and unable to retake its original shape from the rough beating it took. He was going to be sore for a _while_.

His attention returned when Whirl shifted enough to lie forward, flinching and not even bothering to close his arrays, and just laid there trembling, cycling rapidly.

"Okay," he started again, winded, vocalizers riddled with shaky static. "That . . . wasn't bad. . . . I've had better, though . . . Con. . . ."

Cyclonus chuffed then moved atop him again, letting his weight rest at the small of Whirl's narrow back, and the helicopter gasped and squirmed. He held the blue mech in place and ground his still hard spike against his dented plating, rumbling appreciatively when his optic gave an eager, lusty flash.

"What makes you think I'm done with you?" Cyclonus growled.


	3. MTMTE – Rung&Fortress Maximus

I probably should have said this sooner, but as you read please keep in mind that **unless otherwise stated**, each drabble is to be considered **its own independent piece** that does **in no way relate to other chapters**. Thank you!

* * *

**Pairing**: Rung/Fortress Maximus

**Summary**: Sometimes therapy requires a more personal approach.

**Rating**: T (fluff, hurt/comfort, kissing)

[Because oh my god I just want to love Maximus so much, hold him tight and tell him everything's going to be okay and never let him go. QnQ Also, Rung is so precious.]

* * *

They were making such progress, but lately Maximus had fallen into a rut from which there seemed no rising out. Rung was at a loss. He'd tried everything he could think of, but Fortress Maximus could barely even look at him. The lapses into memory were growing less frequent, thank Primus, but the hulking mech had suddenly become distant. He never complained—or even spoke—about whatever was bothering him and remained cooperative for their visits, but he was no longer receptive to Rung's aid. Rung believed Maximus genuinely wanted to be out of his cell and to be helped, but they weren't getting anywhere anymore. Rung was worried that if he couldn't produce proof that Fortress Maximus was improving then Rodimus would discontinue their sessions and restrict him to the brig indefinitely. He simply could not allow that.

"Why don't we start off simple today," Rung suggested. He sat quietly across from the warden. Helm hung, Maximus glanced up then back down to the floor. "Nothing too terribly detailed. Tell me, how are you feeling?"

Fortress Maximus looked to the side. "The same."

Rung refused to let his shoulders droop, digits laced atop his lap.

"That's a start," he smiled. "Any better since last we visited?"

"No."

"And the others are treating you well?"

"Fine."

Rung frowned a bit but brushed it away. He asked a couple more questions, keeping it basic and conversational. If Maximus was being properly fueled, if the other prisoners were giving him a hard time, and what kind of thoughts might be on his mind. He didn't get much of a response for the last one.

"Fortress Maximus," Rung began gently and scooted forward to the edge of his chair, "please tell me, what is the matter? I want to help you, I genuinely do. But first I need you to let me. If not as your doctor, then as your friend." His smile was gentle, sincere. "Please."

Maximus glanced back to him. His red stare lingered a few seconds longer than before and then turned back to the floor. It wasn't nothing, but his body language was still completely closed off. Elbows were drawn in and rested atop his knees, shoulders slouched and helm downcast, servos kept cuffed for precaution to avoid any likelihood of a repeat of their first incident—which, Primus, felt a lifetime ago.

The silence was long, but Rung was patient.

Fortress Maximus finally sighed.

"I can't," he murmured.

"Why not?"

"I just _can't_."

Rung frowned somewhat, empathetic. This wasn't the first time he encountered a patient who gave up on help midway through treatment. Whirl often toyed with the idea of not coming anymore despite what his sentence demanded, and Red Alert had been Rung's most challenging case to date. Fortress Maximus was proving to be difficult, but not at all unmanageable. Rung had such hope for him; he just needed Maximus to see the same.

Conventional psychotherapy did not appear to be having the same effect any longer. Rung knew he needed a different approach. But what? He remembered some research he did into tactile therapy a while back and the level of success it attested to with victims of PTSD. Like most unconventional methods, it ran the risk of having the exact opposite of its intended effect and making the patient distrustful and suspicious, and on top of that there was the chance it could lead to attachment and infatuation. Rung had dealt with that before on a few occasions and given the opportunity he would rather not repeat it, but he was not about to give up on Fortress Maximus. He owed it to the mech—for his pushiness in their first meeting.

Rung stroked his hands together and stood up slowly. The movement drew Maximus's attention. Rung moved carefully and paused before getting too close, not wanting him to feel that he was pushing or encroaching.

"If I may, I'd like to try something," Rung said. His palms faced outward looking downright miniscule by comparison. "Please tell me if you are adverse to it. If you are, I will stop immediately and we will be done for the day. I will not harm you, Fortress Maximus, I promise."

But because Maximus said nothing or gave no indication of his approval, Rung stood there waiting, hands presented. It was clearly not the reaction the larger mech expected, but after a moment of deliberation, he nodded once. Rung stepped slowly forward, certain to keep his hands in clear view, and stopped once he was right in front of his towering patient. Maximus stared down at him, stern but confused, and flinched when the orange Bot reached out. Rung held still and waited for him to relax before he continued, then gingerly placed his small servo against Maximus's bicep.

"I did research into this method back on Cybertron," Rung explained, not about to leave Maximus in the dark and risk offending him or what fragile trust they'd established. "It does involve some casual touching, but I will not do anything you do not want me to. Please tell me if you would like me to stop at any time. I absolutely do not wish to make you uncomfortable."

Maximus looked suspicious but otherwise didn't say anything. He nodded again for Rung to continue. A second servo came up and gingerly laid against the silvery white panel of his chest plate just beneath his insignia and carefully glided his fingertips along to the side. Maximus eyed each move attentively, all the while Rung watched his face for a reaction, any indication he had gone too far at any point. When there were none, he went on. Carefully, Rung grazed along Maximus's hide, wary of anatomical zones he knew to be sensitive, and encouraged him to simply feel it.

It was only a few short moments of this until Fortress Maximus's optics shuttered slightly and his drawn, dour expression began to soften. Rung smiled, so joyed and grateful that his Spark fluttered in its chamber. His hand came to rest behind Maximus's shoulder and wound up leaning in closer than intended, but the mech's expression was contemplative, completely absent of any negative thought or emotion.

"Is this okay, Fortre—? Oh!" Rung gasped and jumped, not expecting it when Maximus suddenly took hold of him.

"M-Maximus?" he stuttered, more surprised than anything else.

The mech's servos were powerful and enormous but also astonishingly gentle with his small frame. Their optics met and Fortress Maximus appeared considerate, so much so Rung could see the gears turning behind them. One enormous blue servo flattened weightlessly into his back at the same time Maximus lowered himself, and the _Lost Light's_ humble therapist whose name no one could ever seem to remember blinked to find himself suddenly kissing the giant mech.

The kiss was brief, a bit awkward from their size difference, and lingered warm against Rung's lips when Maximus drew away and straightened. The small orange Bot's face was flush and glowing with energon, speechless and floundering for the first time in centuries. Maximus remained silent, brow plates pulled slightly together, expecting some kind of a response; though, perhaps he wasn't sure what.

"Oh," was Rung's first reaction. "Is that . . . is that acceptable?"

"You tell me," Fortress Maximus replied.

Rung considered it a moment and then smiled genuinely again. "If it helps you, Maximus, then it is fine."

Maximus nodded and freed one of his servos to carefully pinch the base of Rung's chin between his digits and bring the smaller mech back. Rung managed to not be quite as surprised but it still floored him at how gentle Fortress Maximus was, the warmth and slow caress of his lips, and before long Rung found himself retuning it with a small sigh and sag of his shoulders. Hand still behind Maximus's shoulder, he moved the other to rest gingerly against the larger mech's helm and thumbed the tall, flat surface of his audial.

Unconventional, yes, but Rung couldn't argue with results. At least Fortress Maximus was more willing to talk after that.


	4. MTMTE – Rodimus&Ultra Magnus

**Pairing**: Rodimus/Ultra Magnus

**Summary**: Rodimus believes Ultra Magnus needs to lighten up; Magnus disagrees with his methods.

**Rating**: M (closet sex, oral, minor exhibitionism(?), sticky, NSFW)

[Magnus makes this one for me.]

* * *

"Rodimus, I must protest. This is highly inappropriate," Ultra Magnus said. "Drift's office was unacceptable, but a utility closet is absolutely out of the question. This is in blatant violation of the common grounds of decency, not to mention more indecent exposure violations than I care to count, and I—"

"Magnus," Rodimus interrupted, trailing his servos up the larger mech's siding, "have I ever told you that you really need to lighten up?"

If it were possible for the enforcer's frown to deepen any further, it would have dented the floor of the ship. "Yes," Ultra Magnus deadpanned. "Approximately eighty-seven times in the past stellar week alone."

Rodimus paused in his ministrations to blink and cock a brow plate. "Wow. You know, at this rate I'm going to have to make 'relax' an order rather than a suggestion."

"You would not be successful."

Rodimus huffed and frowned, lower lip jutting out in the pout of a true sparkling. Not one to be discouraged, however, he bounced out of it and knelt down before his second-in-command and ordered him to open up. As opposed to this act at Ultra Magnus was, he wasn't about to disobey a direct order regardless of how uncomfortable it made him—and especially because Rodimus would undoubtedly find some other roundabout method of getting what he wanted from him.

The moment Ultra Magnus's flaccid spike emerged from its housing, Rodimus took it in his servos and began licking, sucking, and massaging it with the utmost care and attention. It didn't take much of this treatment until Ultra Magnus shuddered and pressurized, pulsing and throbbing in Rodimus's practiced hands. If only Rodimus put as much effort and seriousness into his position as Prime as he did into driving the Tyrest Enforcer through the ceiling with these improper acts, then Ultra Magnus wouldn't feel it nearly as necessary to go out of his way to nitpick.

An approving little hum vibrated its way up Ultra Magnus's spike once it was fully hardened and Rodimus trailed his glossa up the underside. He kissed and suckled the tip just to watch Magnus ball his fists, knowing it was all the stoic enforcer could do to keep from grabbing him. Glossa pressed into the leaking slit, Rodimus moaned and took it into his mouth and sucked him in deep, unexpected enough for Ultra Magnus to lurch and knock his helm back into the bulkhead and rattle the contents of a nearby shelf. Rodimus knew _exactly_ how to rifle the mech's circuits, and he took great pride and pleasure in doing so.

"Rodimus," Ultra Magnus grated, biting back on his charge on a last-ditch effort to keep it together, "this is not a good idea. We should not—"

The phrase cut short with a strangled grunt when Rodimus moaned around him again. Bright, lustful blue optics grinned up at him, barely able to curve his lips around the spike's impressive girth. His helm bobbed back and forth, purposeful and taunting and gripping hard into Magnus's hip struts. His glossa swirled in all directions and left a thin sheen of oral lubricant behind to be cleaned up on the following passes. Magnus desperately wanted to think of nothing more than all the things he could be doing to be _productive_—keeping an eye on the crew, patrolling the brig, tidying up his office, making sure Tailgate was still sympathizing with the Autobots—but it was all slipping away much too fast. The light graze of dental plating along his external nodes, glossa twisting and laving into the gaps between pressure plates, servos pumping, squeezing, caressing, and the moaning hum of Rodimus's vocalizers, they were all working to undo him faster than the radiation blast off a supernova.

Rodimus dug into his companion's transformation seams and moaned heatedly and that was it. All Magnus had to say was his captain's name, urgent and strained, and Rodimus disconnected. Ultra Magnus hiked his lithe red Prime up by his thighs and pinned him between himself and the wall, the guards of both panels snapped open to find his flashy red spike throbbing and valve slick with desire, and Magnus aligned the head of his spike with the dripping rim and _pressed_ inside. Rodimus shook hard and bucked into the slow inward push, servos clutched to the enforcer's magnificent frame. Legs twitched and jaw fallen open, Rodimus trembled and smiled, wordless, valve stretched wide and so deep it made his processor haze over. Involuntary circuits twitched and clenched all over his body, so ready.

He was downright heated. Cooling vents kicked on and settled fully into Ultra Magnus's hips, spike aching and hot within him. The enforcer drew back slowly, ground through every sparking sensor and node, and seated himself deep again before Rodimus could even miss that slow, wonderful stretch.

"Rodimus, please, keep your voice down," Ultra Magnus murmured, vocals tense.

Oh. He hadn't even realized he'd been loud at all. Rodimus muttered some mindless half-sparked apology and didn't mean a single incoherent word of it. Impatient for a better pace, he hitched his legs over Magnus's hips and brought him back to him in one swift yank. Magnus lost his bearings from the unexpected pull and stumbled, braced his pedes and servos, and wound up with the full force of his weight pushed into Rodimus by their connection. The Prime's helm smacked back into the wall and his jaw fell open, optics flickered and valve spasmed. Magnus immediately drew back and rambled his apologies and a suggestion to go see Ratchet until one shaky yellow servo reached up, grabbed him by an audio stack, and pulled him into a jarring, wanton kiss.

"Scrap, Magnus, don't apologize," Rodimus husked, "do it _again_."

Ultra Magnus's optics dimmed faintly. "Is that an order—Sir?"

There was a brief instant of confusion and then Rodimus's optics flashed. All he could do to restrain his laughter was to grind their hips together and physically bite his partner's lip plate.

"Yes," he exclaimed, "yes, Magnus, _yes_. That's an order. It's an _order_."

Ultra Magnus's optics shuttered slightly, one of his very few signs of real pleasure. He braced a servo beneath the smaller mech's aft and the other on the bulkhead then rocked his hips back and slipped almost fully out of Rodimus. It drew a licentious whine from the young Prime, pushing back and pleading not to lose him, but before he could finish it Magnus was suddenly and forcefully _in_ again.

His helm arched back with what would have been an impressive cry of pleasure as Magnus outright pounded him into the wall, but a giant gray servo clamped over his mouth and stopped it short. _Ngh,_ Rodimus wanted to wail Ultra Magnus's name so the whole ship could hear just to spite him, but by then it was impossible to do much else but let his optics roll back. Rodimus rocked up and down the wall with every thrust from the enforcer's powerful hips, doing his utmost to turn the treatment back on him by bucking, clenching, and grappling with his chest but each move came out erratic and blatantly unplanned. Reality centered on surging white electricity and a trembling spine, the pounding rhythm and low grunts and groans right beside his audio.

He grabbed Magnus's audio stacks at one point, jarring his hulking lover enough to slip free of his grip and pull him into a hard, passionate kiss. For the awkward and clumsy and utterly unpracticed kisser that Ultra Magnus was, Rodimus loved it. He was the only one who'd ever been allowed to _kiss_ the mighty Tyrest Enforcer. He owned these lips. They were his alone to kiss, and he claimed them like it was his right as Prime; and for once Magnus had no problem indulging him—so long as it kept him quiet.

Primus, Rodimus wanted to drag this out—to eat up as much of Ultra Magnus's day as possible, throw off his precious to-the-nanosecond schedule, and make him late for absolutely everything for the next stellar week. To Pit with the grousing and the chewing out it would earn him; it would be _so_ worth it in the end. But his charge came up on him faster than expected, right on time given Magnus's pounding stride, and drove him higher by the simple knowledge of how easily they could be caught. He bucked again and again into his lover's thrusts, kisses fervent and desperate.

Overload took him in a sharp electric crackle and burst of swelling heat. Magnus's servo clamped behind his helm still thrusting, still riding it out while Rodimus shook and moaned resonantly into his lips—a sound Ultra Magnus secretly considered a shame to have to stifle down. Ultra Magnus drew out the overload to a maddening rhythm of clenching, calibers rippling and pulling and drawing him in until he finally pressed in deep. Every circuit tensed and the heat and pressure erupted outward. A low, baritone groan disappeared into Rodimus's hungry lips and Ultra Magnus emptied inside him. The flood of transfluid rushed through the lithe, gorgeous Prime's core, slick and hot and absolutely euphoric.

The pair waited there a moment, joints locked up and stunned as nonessential systems rebooted. Slowly, the static cleared. Shaky still in the afterglow, Ultra Magnus broke the kiss and braced both servos on Rodimus's waist to take the weight off him, venturing a lick to clear away a thin rope of oral lubricant connecting them. It brought a tired smile from his partner, heavy spike still imbedded deep in the Prime's ravishing body, and something in that knowledge gave Magnus a thrill he would never dare voice aloud.

They cycled cool air together a few moments in an attempt to ease their overheated systems, optics dim and plates popping faintly to dispel the radiating furnaces in their Spark chambers.

"Next time you want to interface, Rodimus," Ultra Magnus mumbled exasperated, "can we please keep it to one of our quarters? Unlike you, I do not wish to be caught like this."

A slow grin that did not bode well for him spread across Rodimus's face, tired and sated and already planning his next assault on the Tyrest Enforcer's precious schedule. Where should he jump him next? Observation deck, maybe? The med bay sounded pretty good, too. "Mmmm, if you keep fragging me like this, big guy, you can forget about it."

Ultra Magnus's frown deepened. Somehow, it _did_. And Rodimus never looked more smug.


	5. MTMTE – Bob

**Pairing**: N/A, just Bob

**Summary**: Sometimes an insecticon just wants to show his love.

**Rating**: K (Bob being an infuriatingly adorable little cutie)

[BECAUSE HE'S JUST SO GODDAMN CUTE OKAY]

* * *

Feet. Feet all over. Some moved and some were still. Some feet tapped and twitched and some feet brushed against others, splashes of colors touching together and playing games beneath tables where only Bob could see them. He watched them all and wanted to play with every single one, but His Master had told him to stay and stay he would.

Still, Bob chirred and scratched and wanted to play. Play! Play! Could there be something to chase maybe? He pawed at His Master's feets and begged him to throw something so he could catch it and bring it back to him, but His Master told him to stop so he stopped and sat, still wanting to play.

His Master gave him a sweetie treat for being still and a "guuhd bo-ee" and he ate it up happily. Bob curled up and nestled into His Master's yellow feet—it was his very favorite thing to do—and squealed happily when he put them up on his side for him to play with. He pawed and nuzzled and tugged the yellow feet and His Master made happy sounds and communed with his others, the feet around them, kicking and colorful and pretty and Bob wanted to play with them, too.

A blue face with red feet yellow seers peeked down and showed his mouth-chewers in a curve, but Bob was not afraid. He wiggled his red feet and Bob squeaked and grabbed them and nuzzled them. The Master-Friend made a happy sound, too, and Bob squished and pawed and tugged himself around the round-rubbers until the Master-Friend lifted him up and shook him but Bob held tighter and squealed excitedly until he was set down and allowed to nuzzle the other foot, too.

His Master called him and Bob scurried back and pawed his yellow leg, happy to purr and nuzzle when His Master rubbed his helm and he buried into his leg, wishing he could nuzzle His Master forever. Nuzzling was his very favorite thing to do.

More faces peeked down and the small Master-Friend with the one red side-seer made sounds and kicked his tiny white feet which didn't reach the ground. Bob hurried to them and pawed and tried to catch them but the small Master-Friend kept moving them away. Eeee, he was playing! Play! Play! Bob keened and crooned and jumped and grabbed and tried to catch them. He finally did and never wanted to let them go, loving and nuzzling and chirring for the tiny white feet that had wanted to play. Another yellow-and-orange Master-Friend made sounds and reached down to pet his helm and his pretty silver grabbers scratched under Bob's chin. _Scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch! _Fingers, fingers! Bob loved fingers, too! Bob pawed for the pretty silver fingers and purred when they rubbed the space behind his collar.

A few other Master-Friends let Bob play with their pretty and colorful feets, too, and soon Bob was tired and returned to His Master's yellow feet and loved and nuzzled and curled around them. His Master made small happy sounds and gave him another sweetie treat and he nibbled on it tiredly, wishing he could love His Master and His Master's friends forever. They were his very favorite things.

Later when His Master went home, Bob was allowed on the up-nest and even to curl up on His Master's pretty yellow side and cuddle and chirr at the colorful splashes of purple and yellow and gray between them. Cuddling was his very favorite thing to do. He purred the whole time, nestled and happy as His Master pet his helm and called him a "guuhd bo-ee" which was a good thing and made Bob even more happy. He nuzzled His Master's belly and His Master made more happy sounds and scratched him under his chin. Bob purred.

Bob loved His Master. He was Bob's very favorite thing ever.

* * *

[Just in case you weren't able to tell, the other mechs were Skids, Rewind, and Chromedome in that order. I swear—this freaking cutie though. I might just do another one with Bob at this rate. Adorable little asdfghjkl]


	6. MTMTE – Rodimus&Ultra Magnus (2)

**Pairing**: Rodimus/Ultra Magnus

**Summary**: Interfacing with Ultra Magnus tends to leave a mark. (continuation of chapter 4)

**Rating**: M (smut, rough sex leading to minor injuries, sticky, NSFW)

[Because Issue #11 showed us that Magnus has one hell of a grip, and Roddy probably likes it.]

* * *

There always came a price to 'facing with Magnus. Yes, there was the griping. Ultra Magnus often mourned his temporary loss of decorum for hours after a good rut, sometimes for days depending on what lecherous feats and positions Rodimus had coaxed him into. He'd gone so far as to outright refuse speaking to him for an entire stellar week once when Rodimus had convinced the mighty Tyrest Enforcer to 69 with him and again when they'd nearly been caught red-handed in one of the utility closets on the lower decks—by _Swerve_ of all mechs.

No, the griping was of no concern to Rodimus; if he was honest, he rather liked teasing Magnus about it in private. It was the _injuries_ that came as the biggest cost of their little 'romps.'

Rodimus groaned hard and rocked back into the mech behind him, shaking and shuddering and gripping the berth edge just to keep himself together. Ultra Magnus's grip was merciless, completely unaware of just how deep he was digging into Rodimus's hips. Helm arched back and then sharply forward, shoulders tense and every circuit firing a heated amalgamation of pain—from the servos squeezing dents into his plates—and ecstasy—at the spike plunging in and out at the perfect pace, a depth and rhythm that made Ultra Magnus the current center of Rodimus's whole universe.

He cried out, moaning his partner's name, and for once Ultra Magnus didn't need to worry about silencing him. The Prime's quarters were armor reinforced and totally soundproofed, a haven in case of emergency. A place Ultra Magnus might even venture a moan of his own on occasion. Like now for instance.

Servos clutched around Rodimus's slender waist, holding him in place and guiding him to rock back into his thrusts. Rodimus's jaw components hung open virtually unhinged as Ultra Magnus thrust his hips and rocked into his captain's quivering body, so attune to every detail: the differing in the pitches of his moans, the shrill tone of his name being repeated back to him, the bucks and involuntary twitches that jarred his frame when just the right calipers were struck and sent surges coursing through him. Rodimus had overloaded once already, the evidence of it still staining Ultra Magnus's hips and abdomen and the berth underneath them, and it seemed he was well on his way to a second.

Rodimus rocked with him, clutching the berth and whimpering as his ceiling node was struck over and over, so sensitive and overstimulated it was just about driving him to glitch. Vocalizers fizzed in and out and he melted forward, spinal supports bowed out while Magnus repositioned his pedes and leaned over him and rocked in deep. Rodimus's frame locked and cried out his name shrill and harsh, calipers clenched wildly and rippling and his spike burst in his second overload of the evening, but Ultra Magnus didn't let up. His orders were to keep going until specifically told otherwise, and he had every intention of doing just that. Watching Rodimus be driven to so many peaks while Magnus had yet to reach his first, it was torture all its own. But it was a very specific brand of torture, one that Rodimus _liked_, and one of the decidedly few things Ultra Magnus didn't at all mind indulging him in once in a while. Not that he would ever admit it aloud, of course.

With restraint enough to put even himself to shame, Ultra Magnus rode out Rodimus's climax with a tight grip and clenched dental plates. The snug clasp and rhythmic pull of his calipers drew his spike in deep and tried to milk him of his overload; Primus, it was maddening—the Prime's vigorous body uncaring even when it was unsuccessful in bringing him to a peak. Ultra Magnus picked up his thrusts the moment it was done and just admired the sight of his Prime splayed out and trembling before him. He took pity on his over-sensitive body and cramped knees, and Magnus bodily lifted Rodimus upright and back against his chest. One of his servos came up and gripped shakily behind the enforcer's helm, the other into the wheel well in his forearm and knocked his helm back and canted a high pitched moan.

"M-Magnus," the young Prime whimpered, optics a blurred haze and pounding with ecstasy, "y-yes. Oh, Primus, _yes_. This ne-n-next one—_nnnngh!_ Overload, Magnus, pl_ease_! Please, overl_oad_! _Aaaaaaangh_!"

_'Please?'_ Primus, Ultra Magnus must have been doing better than he thought. He pressed a light kiss into Rodimus's audial to show he understood, surprising even himself, and servos gripped tight beneath fiery orange thighs, his weight like nothing to the bigger mech while he lifted the other up and down to the pace of his thrusts.

The Prime's moans were a symphony of pleasure and Ultra Magnus gasped and groaned. White-gray digits pressed outlines into the curve of blazingly colored plates. Yes, Magnus knew of the damages even if Rodimus didn't _know_ he knew. He was _marking_ the Prime. It was juvenile and inappropriate and had already gotten them both a stern chewing out by the _Lost Light_'s medical staff, but it was the only way Magnus could make his point without outright saying something. Because he wasn't just claiming Rodimus with those deep trenching outlines only his servos could make; Ultra Magnus was proving a point to the rebellious young upstart: that if Ultra Magnus could rend his plates so easily in a fit of passion, then Rodimus needed to _focus_—during combat when lives were at stake and even now when it was just the two of them together. But Rodimus barely ever seemed to notice; he was distracted, and they would need considerably more practice before anything stuck.

Ultra Magnus kept his rhythm through it all while Rodimus pitched and moaned and rocked with him. Servos clasped behind his helm and around his arm for balance, pushing back to meet the plunge of his spike again and again, the creak of caving metal and Rodimus _groaned._ Lithe back struts bowed out and shook, and at a low whisper of his name his optics snapped open and met the enforcer's hazy blue glow. Rodimus's lips curved into a smile and dug his digits behind Magnus's helm and pulled him into a hard, passionate kiss, so completely overwhelmed by it all. The exhaustion and overstimulated nerve bundles sparking and jolting, metal caved to a set pattern all over his body, and kissing his partner so hard their dental plates clashed and glossas warred with such fervent lust it tipped Rodimus over like an avalanche.

Systems locked and his Spark seized with such intensity it glowed through the seams in his chassis, made all the more incredible as Ultra Magnus moaned—Primus, actually _moaned_—into his lips. A flood of transfluid rushed through his clutching valve all the way to the top and Rodimus experienced a total blackout. He came back from an eternity's worth of nanoseconds with Magnus still locked within him and heat and electricity popping across their frames.

Magnus pulled back from the kiss, swayed once, and set him as graciously as possible—which wasn't all that gentle—onto the berth, servos braced on either side to cool down and reboot. It was a long few moments of systems restarting and cycling air, relishing in the white static and afterglow.

"Ow," Rodimus mumbled after a time, pain receptors finally indicating the servo shaped valleys etched into every major plate on his body.

Ultra Magnus chuffed and then promptly choked himself. Too late, the sound echoed off the walls in the suddenly deathly silent quarters. Rodimus panned back over his shoulder with wide optics that read of shock and disbelief, then a mischievous grin stretched his mouth all the way to his audials and Magnus knew instinctively he was never going to live this down.


	7. MTMTE – Cyclonus&Tailgate

**Pairing**: Cyclonus/Tailgate

**Summary**: You can't blame the Highgrade unless you actually get drunk. (Spoiler Alert: He's not.)

**Rating**: M (smut, sticky, sub!Cyclonus, top!Tailgate, NSFW)

[DAT ANON WHO REVIEWED OMG WHO ARE YOU MY LOVE TELL ME OH GOD I'M GONNA CRY No seriously, Anon, whoever you are, can I sdfghjk can I just love you forever and ever? Q3Q Pretty please? Here, let me just –caresses your face and whispers lovingly– This one's for you. –smooch– Don't ever change.]

* * *

It was the Highgrade. That was Cyclonus's excuse. It always came back to the Highgrade. Why? Because it was so much easier to rationalize his actions—his _desires_—through the lingering haze of a tall cube of Engex than to simply admit just how much he enjoyed getting spiked.

A low, harsh growl rumbled through his chassis as Cyclonus hung his helm back over the edge of the berth, energon rushing up to cloud the fritzing connections. Vents hitched slightly when Tailgate bucked out of rhythm, eliciting a pleased moan from his larger partner, and fumbled with the long line of his thigh as he tried to hike the leg over his shoulder, too heavy to lift and concentrate at the same time. Cyclonus smirked inwardly and lifted for him, letting the crook of his knee lay bent atop Tailgate's shoulder crest. It allowed the mini mech deeper and at a more prominent angle, surges of electricity sparking up from his core, and Cyclonus growled his approval, long and low, and jetted a cloud of steam out his olfactory vents and overcharged engine.

"That good?" Tailgate asked, trembling slightly, visor dim and quivering at the tight clench of his partner's calipers. "_Nngh_—th-that's—o-oh Primus. . . . Cyclonus, you're—_ah-h!_—r-really tight. . . ."

Cyclonus said nothing and just concentrated on the sensations coursing through him, half a mind to remind Tailgate to do the same. He tightened around his partner's spike, cutting him off mid-sentence and breathing deep in pleasure from the slow grind along his slick nodes. Jet engines purred and Tailgate moaned, the vibration traveling up every inch of his frame and making his Spark quake in its chamber, shaking and thrusting ambitiously.

"_Mmnn, nn, hahh!_ C-Cyclonus, _mh,_ oh Primus yes. . . ." Tailgate shuddered. Blunt white digits stroked his companion's thigh with one servo, spike with the other, and nuzzled his facemask into dense violet armor. Cyclonus moaned heavily, all the encouragement Tailgate needed to try leveraging himself deeper. "Y-you don't . . . do this o-often . . . do you, Cyclonus." It was rhetorical, not really looking for an answer.

Charge pounding through his core, Cyclonus's Spark surged and he tensed to a sudden wave of ecstasy. He arched his neck back with a breathy groan, answering anyway. "Hmmmm, what do you think, Tailgate? How many—_hhrrrrrrnnghh_. _Mnn._ How many mechs do you think have had that honor? Of spiking me?"

Tailgate wasn't sure how to answer that, or, for that matter, if he was even serious about getting one. It was hard enough to think around the ancient warrior's tight heat working him in the slow, pulsating draw of his calipers. Tailgate groaned and Cyclonus bucked his hips, reminding him of the task he'd set for his servos, and the little blue Bot picked up rubbing his spike again—long, slow strokes and a careful tweak of the head, pumping in tandem with his thrusts. Cyclonus was in pleasure. He was doing good. The last thing Tailgate wanted was to rush this.

"_Mh,_ I bet," Tailgate began, vocalizers turned way down, "I bet very few. Maybe . . . less than—" Ten? No, that seemed too high. "_h-h-aangh_—e-eight?" No, that still felt too high. Cyclonus smirked, wringing a shrill whine out from him when he ground his dentas and constricted firmly. "Ooo-o-oh P-P-Pri-Primus, _Cyclonus_ . . . ! L-l-less than fu-fi_iiive_?"

"Lower," he rumbled.

Tailgate shook and activated probably a dozen other backup systems just to keep his joints from locking. Okay-okay. Less than he'd had. No surprise th-there. But Cyclonus had to have been young at one point, right? Surely he'd had numerous partners. Seriously, who in their right circuits could resist a mech of this caliber? But Cyclonus as the one on bottom? Tailgate could scarcely comprehend it: Cyclonus: young and promiscuous. Impossible. _Nghh!—whoa, f-f-frag!_

Tailgate's Spark fluttered and he moaned at the rising charge between them, thrusting his hips as consistently as possible. It was _difficult_. He wasn't big by any means, especially not for the body type Cyclonus was ultimately designed for, but scrap if it wasn't insane how tightly he could _clench_.

His light blue flicker met with dark, smoldering crimson and Tailgate _moaned_, pumping his hips and servo in unison until Cyclonus hissed again, squealing his claws against the berth.

"M-maybe," Tailgate continued, "only . . . only three?"

Cyclonus smirked. His chassis expanded a deep intake and tipped his helm back again, throat cables bared and silver and a bit dingy in need of a good polish, inhaled to capacity, and compressed his chest with a slow, raspy, _steaming_ exhale.

By Primus and the Well, that wasn't _fair_. He looked incredible.

Cyclonus droned richly, resonant in his chassis: _"Lower."_

Tailgate shook everywhere but in his constitution, so completely struck by the mech he was bedding. Primus, how had they ever gotten to this point? Become roommates. Friends. _Lovers?_ Scrap, he had it bad for Cyclonus. _So_ bad.

"T-two," Tailgate murmured, fumbling at the implications of going any lower.

Cyclonus finally rumbled his answer, punctuated with an, "Including you," and Tailgate felt the pressure uncoil from his Spark and send licks of blue electricity all the way down to his fingertips and pedes. He moaned, digits clenched beneath the lip of his partner's thigh plating, and thrust a little harder, some small part of him disappointed to know this—having hoped beyond reason that _he_ might just be Cyclonus's first. A stupid thing to wish, yes, but second wasn't nothing, either.

"Galvatron," Tailgate murmured, the name like an odd, foreign word on his vocalizers. He knew the meaning and the deeds of the mech behind it, but he could never fully comprehend the extent without having been there to see it himself. Galvatron was one of the mechs at the head of the Decepticon army, and Cyclonus once served as his top Lieutenant. And . . . something more? "I don't . . . think I could _possibly_ compare to that, Cyclonus. . . ."

But Cyclonus's response came with another exhale, dark red optics shuttered partially and lip plates slightly parted. He hummed and hitched his other leg around Tailgate's waist and brought him farther forward, helping to strengthen his thrusts.

"Mmm, don't let it intimidate you, Tailgate," Cyclonus purred. "You're nothing to balk at, you know."

"I-I—" Tailgate stuttered, swearing his audios had glitched. "Wh-wha—? _Nn_!"

He gasped and hitched, cut off when Cyclonus lifted his hips and brought both their arrays crashing together, striking and grinding over several of his deepest nodes. He moaned and did it again, two more thrusts before Tailgate caught on and physically grabbed him by his struts and met his partner halfway, repeating the thrusts again and again, hard.

"There," Cyclonus grated, dentas gnashed with pleasure and helm tilting even farther back, "just like that, Tailgate. _Rrrrmmmh_, just like that."

Tailgate moaned his name back to him, one of those few times he wished he had a mouth just so he could bite his lip or gnash his dentas like Cyclonus did. It looked so nice when he did it. Hips thrust harder, faster, enthralled with the way the Con shook ever so slightly, limbs twitching involuntary jerks with the charge building steadily higher in-between them. And then he grated out the smaller mech's name and Tailgate thought he was going to lose it right then and there. He shifted forward onto his knees and slipped a servo beneath one of Cyclonus's stabilizers.

"C-Cyc-clonus," he stuttered, "please. C-can I—_mmn!_—can I . . . ? O-o-on your side?"

A mindless nod and the former Con flipped onto his right and watched, optics glazed with lust but still highly attentive, as Tailgate swung a shapely white leg over his thigh and entered him again with a well-lubricated _schliick_, leg propped up between the tall crest of his shoulder and neck. Cyclonus shuttered his optics entirely that time and raked gashes into the berth. He _moaned_.

"Tailgate," Cyclonus husked. _"Move."_

He did, and he held nothing back. Metal clashed roughly against even harder metal, paint chipping and flecking and transferring off onto the wrong bodies, and small servos clutched strongly into the Con's thigh plating and pumped all along his throbbing spike. Prerelease fluid dribbled from the tip, but Cyclonus couldn't bring himself to care as Tailgate gathered it up with his nimble, rounded digits and spread it down his length, aiding the pass of his servo and endeavor to work Cyclonus to completion. Pit, Tailgate really was a fast learner after all. Pedes curled and locked behind the minibot's back, cramping from the force of the lock as his claws squeezed perfect servo indents around the edge of the slab.

Nimble white digits groped all along his frame, pressing into seams forced open due to heat ejection, and Cyclonus groaned his lover's name, commending him for his touch and the symphony of his vocals when he keened melodiously, the twists and rhythmic clenches of his valve and hips rocking to meet thrusts and the small blue mech's servo. A few more well-placed touches was all it took—of Tailgate's fingers pressing underneath his lowest spinal guard and physically _popped_ the anchor securing it to his protoform; accidental or not, it sent an electric bolt rocketing right up to his processor on contact—and the rush of sensation tipped Cyclonus into a full-body arch, _snarled_, and overload crashed over him.

Completion rang hard and Cyclonus's Spark surged out its pent-up charge in one powerful volley. The calipers in his valve clenched and pulled and wrung a strangled cry out of Tailgate, the heat pooled behind his arrays rushed outward and his spike burst, spraying a hot jet of transfluid onto the berth and his vocals roared. Over the haze of static and his own engine revving, Cyclonus barely heard Tailgate as he went over with him. The hot rush of the Bot's release rushed through him and aided the electrical impulses sparking and jolting down every circuit, resulting in a momentary system offset and cognitive whiteout.

They came back down at the drip rate of frozen motor oil, and Cyclonus onlined his optics to find Tailgate slumped forward, propped up only by the leg over his shoulder. Cyclonus eased himself down and on his back, stiff from the exertion and angle of his leg, and made sure Tailgate wasn't going to fall before letting go of him. The little blue Autobot braced into his hips, cycling rapidly. With enough care to swear it might be open-Spark surgery, Tailgate pulled out and shivered, unwelcome to the streak of arousal he experienced seeing his own transfluid rush out of Cyclonus's valve like this. He groaned and collapsed onto the Con's front.

"Oh," Tailgate said after a time, so drained in every way imaginable. "Wow. . . ."

Cyclonus smirked to himself while he laid back, content to let his systems cool for a moment or two. Gingerly, he hooked one of his claws beneath the minibot's faceplate and lifted it to meet him, all the while mindful of his current sensitivity.

"You've been paying attention," Cyclonus rumbled.

Tailgate's visor brightened subtly. "Well, yeah," he said, vocals high and a bit harsh from all the sound they'd produced. "I figured, you know, after all we've 'been through,' I couldn't just not take notes."

Cyclonus's optics flashed and then dimmed way down, almost completely black with a nebulous smolder.

"Mmmm, you're starting to catch on, Tailgate," he droned._ "Good."_

Cyclonus righted himself and coaxed Tailgate up onto his knees, claw hooked at the base of his chin and stretching his neck out to bare the vulnerable components underneath. Cyclonus leaned down and purred into the crook of the Autobot's neck, nibbling so, so gently, "Show me what else you've learned, then, Tailgate. That is, if you think you're up for it."

Tailgate's visor dimmed and he whined headily. His Spark gave an anticipatory little kick, grappled at Cyclonus's chest, and hauled himself up onto the Con's lap with an insistent "yes," or two, or ten. Cyclonus growled and smirked, grabbed his roommate around his voluptuous waist and flipped him over onto his back.

* * *

[Anyone else for Cyclonus gettin' fragged senseless by a Bot 1/3 his size? Anyone? Anyone at all? No? What about borderline explosive overload? Still no? Okay. –crawls into hole–]


	8. MTMTE – Rung&Fortress Maximus (2)

Friendly reminder that unless otherwise stated, **all drabbles are independent** of each other and **are in no way related** to the happenings of any other chapter. Thank you all so much for your love and support, it's what keeps me going! :3

* * *

**Pairing**: Rung/Fortress Maximus

**Summary**: Sex therapy? (continuation of chapter 3)

**Rating**: M (sticky, fingering, oral, frotting, hurt/comfort, some gruesome flashbacks, NSFW)

[Dedicated to _JenKristo_~! Apparently I made her ship it so asdfghjkl If you don't know who she is, tsk-tsk! Go check her stories out ASAP! Her fics are positively delicious and she's such a sweetheart! X3 Also, special thanks to _AndeChi_ and _artoni_ (of Tumblr) for helping me figure this one out! Love you!]

* * *

"It's okay, Maximus," Rung murmured, shaky. His faceplate flushed with a rush of energon and chewed his lower lip. "We don't have to do this if you're n-not comfortable with it."

"No," Fortress Maximus whispered, red optics shuttered partly. His vents puffed warm air against Rung's chest and fogged the faint blue-green glow of his center orb. "It's fine. I want this." He paused to glance up at the smaller mech. "That is, if you still do."

Rung smiled quietly and nodded, grateful to be given the choice even though this unorthodox exchange had been his suggestion to begin with. Maximus recently suffered a particularly bad episode and Rung was reluctant to let him out of his sight, willing to do just about anything to repair the damage the lapse into memory caused. Somehow that turned out to include interfacing. 'Comfort 'facing' was the layman's term, but it had a more specialized designation which was, for the moment, evading Rung to great effect.

Fortress Maximus's lips grazed his chest plate, observant and tender and keeping close track of the responses elicited by his actions. Light gasps escaped the small psychiatrist with each light graze of lips and fingertips, giant blue digits tracing his arms, down his sides, hips, and nervous quivering legs, knees mashed together. Rung wasn't the prettiest mech, no. He was gangly, small, fragile even for a mech his size, and his optics were a peculiar shade somewhere between blue and green, but Maximus had grown endeared to him during their visits. His genuine and earnest nature was a foreign thing, odd like it didn't fit or have a place in this cold and bitter creature that was the world. And yet somehow it did.

Through all the attention Maximus lavished on him, all Rung could do was lay on the berth and squirm. It'd been a long time since his last interface and he was embarrassed to admit he'd become somewhat rusty at it. The best he could manage between Maximus's kisses and touch was to grab his shoulders and hold on, occasionally working in a clutch or caress when he was coherent enough to consider his partner's pleasure. At least Maximus didn't seem to mind the occasional embarrassed hitch or overwhelmed fumble. Rather, he drank them in, tilting his helm into Rung's palm when small orange fingers grazed his audio stacks and pushed back into the shaky knee touching his abdomen.

Gradually, Fortress Maximus moved down Rung's chassis, leaving tender licks and kisses in his wake that had the small therapist quivering and warm all over. He even squeaked at one point, jolted by a surprise dip of a glossa into one of his transformation seams, and bit down on one of his knuckles.

"F-Fortress," he gasped, helm tipped back into the berth padding.

"You don't do this often enough," Maximus observed. It brought Rung out of his overwhelmed state. He preferred when the smaller mech could pay attention. "Why not?"

"Oh. Well, I, um," Rung began, searching for a response amid the delicate grip of enormous servos. "It's that . . . m-my patients see me in a very particular light. Finding that I, well, have a life outside my occupation can be potentially jarring." Maximus paused his ministrations and raised an optic ridge. "An impromptu moment of sonder is rarely gentle on a mending psyche."

"So, what? Other people aren't supposed to view you as an individual? You're only your occupation?"

"Well, it's more to do with our current, um, 'circumstance' than someone seeing me sitting down for a drink at the bar."

Maximus supposed he understood. That didn't make it any more sensible, however. "You don't want your patients to think you have a personal life," he clarified aloud. "Much less an intimate one."

"N-no, it's not—Oh. Um, well, yes. I suppose that's accurate," Rung admitted but frowned because it didn't feel completely correct. "It's complicated. Most would see _this_ as unprofessional."

"It _is_ unprofessional. Getting involved with a patient. "

Rung sputtered and floundered. That wasn't the explanation he'd intended, not at all. It only sunk him farther into the hole.

"I-I—I have done research into this method," Rung defended shrilly, flustered beyond all reason at Maximus's almost imperceptible smirk. "I would not be engaging in this if I did not believe it would be beneficial to you, Maximus."

Maximus huffed. He knew that, but he could give Rung a tough time over how it appeared if he wanted. He wanted to continue teasing him, to bring up just how much this looked like the mind-savvy mech was taking advantage of one of his patients, but he knew Rung wouldn't appreciate that. He placed his lips on the orb in Rung's chassis, gave it a casual lick, and just enjoyed the way his frame spasmed and gasped, digits clasping onto the warden's audio stacks to hold himself together.

It was a shame he didn't do this more often. Rung had such wonderful reactions. Or perhaps it was in light of how rarely this happened that he reacted so well. Hm. Maximus couldn't help his curiosity as to what Rung might venture to reciprocate were he just a little fresher or more well-versed in the berth.

Fortress Maximus moved his hands down Rung's siding, digits grazing willowy orange hips and then tentatively spread his thighs. Heat radiated from the doctor's center in slow pulsating waves just at the cusp of a building charge, lingering somewhere in the flustered limbo of a gray static haze that wasn't quite strong enough to make it anywhere. That was an easy fix. Maximus touched his fingers into the mech's interface hatch and rubbed it gently, attune to every little reaction: the way Rung squirmed and clenched his fingers into Fortress Maximus's helm, a shrill whine and how he tilted his helm back helplessly with a soft _fump_ onto the berth padding, the light static charge being built up by the slow, maddening back-and-forth and back-and-forth rhythm of Maximus's digit over blistering hatches driving him somewhere—he wasn't sure where anymore. It sent a jolt up through his struts and Rung gasped, dentas clenched and optics shuttered tight. The hard rub slowed after a moment, light kisses teasing along the edge of his center orb while slate-blue digits stroked delicate circles around the catch to his spike housing and mirrored the same movements over his valve.

Maximus would be lying if he ever said he didn't love how easily Rung got worked up over just a little bit of groping. His digits traced seams and shallow grooves until his arrays clicked open in two simultaneous _snick_'s, faceplate aglow with inexorable heat. Well aware of his partner's state, Maximus murmured a few calm, encouraging, and endearing words to set Rung's processor at ease and allay his awkward knee-mashing, going so far as to place a kiss at the corner of his mouth, one Rung grappled for and pressed himself into, either to distract himself or prevent Maximus from continuing whatever it was he had planned.

Lips broke away with a careful nudge of his forehelm and Maximus quieted his nervous frets.

"You think too much," he murmured. His ex-vents were warm against the doctor's face. Lips drifted over his suborbital plane down and across to his audio, breathing lightly into it. "You're working yourself into a panic over nothing. Just relax. Enjoy yourself."

Rung shuddered and huffed once he regained some of his thought processes, meaning for it to sound somewhere between ruffled and amused but instead came out as exasperation verging on frenzied. "I-I know that. It's just . . . been a while."

Where he couldn't see, Maximus simpered. Rung could feel it against his audio frame, however, and it sent a white-glazed shudder down the side of his neck, lips parted with a gasp while one large hand toyed circles around his inner thighs. He squashed them together either in some feeble attempt to tuck himself away and hide forever or prevent Maximus's hand from leaving _that spot right there oh that's it Primus that feels really good_.

Fortress Maximus breathed into his audio, glossa toying up the length of his receptor antenna just to hear him keen.

"How long is 'a while' exactly?" Fortress Maximus breathed, gravelly and low.

"T-t-too-oo long," Rung mewled. "Much, _much_ too long."

Maximus kept up his ministrations until Rung relaxed enough to allow his legs apart again, freeing up the former warden's servo to continue along the inside of his thighs and stroke his exposed arrays. Digits teased circles around his valve rim, massaging external nodes and dipping inside to rub the sensors closest to the surface, collecting excess lubricant and spreading it around until his digits were slick and wet, even taking a moment to stroke his spike fully pressurized.

With the utmost care, Maximus slid one of his digits in to the first knuckle and placed his lips at the corner of Rung's mouth as an offering. He tensed instantly at the intrusion, dentas clenched and barely keeping himself together with the aid of Fortress Maximus's kiss and clutching at his helm. Hips buckled into his touch, the slow push and draw and stretch around the thick shape clouding his processor better than a tall cube of Highgrade. One was all that was needed to render Rung a quivering mess, pushing and moaning into Maximus's lips and rocking hand. He reached up and wound his arms around the larger mech's neck. He clutched into mechanisms between Maximus's treads, a sensation just jarring enough to slide the digit deeper without meaning to, past the knuckle and grinding on the pleasant _zing_ of a key node. Fervid, Rung groaned. Their glossas toyed and danced together for a short while, first in Rung's mouth and then venturing their way into Fortress Maximus's, caressing and teasing and exploring, never once allowing their lips to hold still even as Rung moaned and pushed into both intrusions, pitching to the opposite of his partner's rhythm.

Fortress Maximus broke to allow Rung a chance to gather his wits and moved down the shallow curves of his frame. He kissed and tongued the panels of light on either side of his chest, glowing a warm low light that fluctuated with his EM field. He rocked his servo back and forth, stretching tightly clenched calipers as gently as his frame type would allow, palming the length of his spike, keeping Rung steady with his free hand and eased lower to his pelvic plating.

"F-Fortress," Rung keened, curling and grasping for his audio plates even as they slid steadily downward. _"O-oh!"_

That's what he liked to hear. Just relax, Maximus thought. Concentrate on the feeling. Do what feels good.

"M-Maximus, _hahh_ . . . !"

Fortress Maximus shuttered his optics and smiled, licking and kissing and nibbling so, so gently.

That's it. Just enjoy it.

_Mmmm, there you go. That's a good little Autobot, Maximus~_

A flash of molten purple shot up Maximus's spine. Optics snapped open and he jolted back, clutching his helm. He never heard Rung's alarmed stammer. Only laughing and grinding metal. Crying out and screaming until vocalizers shredded themselves. Black agony and a violet sheen in the dark. Wailing. Begging for the pain to stop. To put an end to it.

_Why won't you just kill me . . . ? Please, just kill me, Overlord. . . . Please . . . please. . . . Kill . . . me . . . ! Please!_

_Ah, but what would be the point to that, Autobot?_

The laughter carried on. Shrieking and grinding. Hacking, clanging, _cutting_. Molten heat pulling, twisting, tearing. _Screaming._

Kill me! Kill me! _Kill_ me! _Please_, Primus, someone _kill me_!

"—ort—ax—mus!"

Fortress Maximus snapped back to a muted flash of bright white and the color orange. Rung was clutching to his helm and shaking, mouth moving without sound, optics aglow and brow plates pressed to a hard line of worry. Everything came back in a static-filled _pop_ and burble of shrill silence.

"—back, Maximus," Rung was saying, "come back. It's okay. You're fine, you're okay. No one's going to hurt you, you're all right."

Rung wasn't shaking. He was. His entire frame, down to the core. His chassis ached, tanks churning and sick. Spark fluctuated to a current of horror and agony, fans roared. Rung wrapped his arms around Fortress Maximus's neck and held him as tightly as he possibly could.

He whispered into the flat of his shoulder panel, "It's okay, Maximus. You're all right, now. Nothing's going to happen to you. No one can hurt you here."

Fortress Maximus trembled as he released his helm. Slowly, so slowly. Dizzy and numb, he feared he might have dented his own audials. It faded. All he could do to keep from collapsing was to put his arms out. Around Rung. To keep him close. Jaw components mercifully unclenched, dentas strained on the verge of cracking. They hurt. Everything hurt. His helm. His Spark. Everything. _Primus, just make the pain stop._

"It's all right, Maximus," Rung breathed. "You're all right, now. You're safe. That's it. You're okay. We're done for today. That's all."

Fortress Maximus opened his mouth to speak, but his vocalizers crackled with static. He waited a moment for the systems to reset and quelled the majority of his shaking.

"No, I can do this," Fortress Maximus murmured. "I want this."

Rung protested, "Maximus, please, you aren't well. You need time to let your mind recover."

He tried to lift his helm from the larger mech's shoulder but Maximus refused to release him.

"I know that. That's why I—" Fortress Maximus stopped himself, optics hidden in the shadow of his helm crest. He hesitated, unwilling to admit it at first, and it took a moment to find the right words. He buried himself in the smaller mech. "That's why I want this. Why . . . why I _need_ this. Please. Rung."

Something in his tone and in his words, it touched Rung on a level he was not accustomed to. His optics softened with the return of his grip behind Maximus's helm, gentle and understanding.

"I don't want to be alone right now. Please."

"All right," Rung finally whispered, allowed enough room to lift his head and look Fortress Maximus in the face. It was twisted and tense with pain. So much pain. Rung touched his jaw delicately to ease its clenching. Maximus was cold in places, feverish in others. "All right, Maximus. But we need to take this slowly, for both our sakes."

Fortress Maximus nodded once.

Rung went on, "We'll start out small. Nothing major for today. Just relax. Here, lie down."

That caught Maximus by surprise. "But, I thought you—?"

"You should not be exerting yourself right now. Mentally or otherwise," Rung interrupted, his smile tender and real. Thumb touched to the larger mech's chin, stroking delicately back and forth. "Relax. Tell me if I do anything wrong."

Fortress Maximus lied down as instructed, watching as Rung climbed atop his chest and leaned down. He placed a kiss on his brow guard, then cheek plate, then his lips. Both their optics shuttered and Maximus placed his servos on his back and leg and leaned up to deepen it. Small servos stroked his helm, his neck, down his shoulders and chest. It was a familiar touch. Comforting, gentle, and practiced well over the past few weeks. Small digits that knew Maximus inside and out, all the sweet spots and places to avoid: an energon line under the left of his jaw that was delicate and sensitive when touched, a spot back between his treads that always made his vents hitch, and a place on his center spine that brought up bad memories.

The kiss was long, tender, even passionate. They held each other, touching and exploring, some delicate groping to earn a gasp or shudder. Rung shivered and moaned when Maximus touched a place on his lower back, teasing the strut until it sent a charge to his Spark, and in turn Rung slid his nimble digits beneath his chest plate when it popped up the dispel the heat, fingertips grazing the edge of his chamber guard. Vents stuttered and Maximus tugged Rung down, kissing him harder as the two moaned at the other's touches. He moved to roll over but Rung put his leg out and flattened his palm on the warden's chest.

"No," Rung said, gentle but firm. Optics locked with the other's, cycling increased. "Let me, Maximus."

But he seemed uncertain, wanting to protest. Rung had been hesitant before and he didn't want the doctor to take up a task he might not be comfortable with. Fortress Maximus tried to explain this, but Rung simply smiled and quieted him with another kiss.

"It has been a while, yes, but I am not inexperienced. Just relax, Fortress Maximus," he said again. His optics dimmed faintly, smile quirking up in one corner. "Don't think too much. Enjoy yourself."

Maximus chuffed but smiled at his own advice turned against him. It felt good to smile; he had so little to be at all happy about nowadays, and he was glad for these seldom opportunities to do so. So, when Rung kissed him again, it stayed. They vented together, lips moving and caressing until Rung broke away to move down Maximus's frame, repeating the touches that'd been done for him until he reached his interface panel. Closed still but radiating intense heat, Rung palmed and stroked him gently so that a bliss-filled shudder was sent racing up his Spark. Fortress Maximus was able to keep his venting steady for the most part and willed his interface panel open. It did so readily, and his spike emerged fully pressurized. Rung took it into his hands and stroked and rubbed it experimentally, gauging from Maximus's reactions if he was doing well. He seemed to be.

Confidence coming through the uncertainty, Rung massaged his length in long, slow strokes and ventured further, planting a few kisses and licks along the underside and rising to tentatively suckle the head. Maximus moaned and pushed into his ministrations, repeating his name over in encouragement, pleading not to stop. That it felt incredible.

"Rung," he moaned, hips shuddering and fighting not to thrust in his partner's lips while he licked and sucked and bobbed his helm.

"Please. . . . Please, I. . . ."

But Maximus couldn't quite put voice to his thoughts, the request leaping back and forth along strings of white ecstasy. The words were there, but they were weighted down with desire, erratic. His processor was hazed, unable to make the necessary connections. His jaw hung open and lips moved without sound, components taut and in pleasure. Rung parted with one last kiss and lick to clear away a dollop of transfluid forming at the tip. Their optics met and Rung's smile was there, Fortress Maximus's gaze dim with desire.

"Sshh, it's all right. I understand," Rung murmured and sat up. He pulled himself into Maximus's lap until their spikes rubbed together. His sizable cable pressed into Rung's abdomen and he massaged it up and down. "Let me take care of this, Maximus. Let me make you feel good."

Fortress Maximus nodded mindlessly, hips twitching with restraint not to thrust into Rung's touch or roll him over like he so desperately wanted. Stroking their spikes tentatively up and down, getting a feel for the movements and rhythm to rock his own hips to, Rung ground them both together. He gasped softly and chewed his lip as light sparks of static leapt between their frames. Involuntary twitches shook them; it was a hassle to focus, to concentrate and not simply try to push for that one brief instant of release.

The pace was slow, casual, and certain not to rush. Rung was bringing Maximus up, drawing out his charge, allowing the pleasure to be what centered him rather than the pain. Servos ran the length of his spike and rocked their undersides together, stimulating nodes all along the surface. Rung gasped softly, other hand braced into his hip for support and leveraged himself forward, spikes all but merged together. But Maximus was far from uncomfortable. He rocked against his movements in tune to the steady grind and reached down and wrapped his servo around them, surprising Rung with a wide but gentle grasp. He clutched their spikes together and ground his hips to compliment Rung's, rocking slow and stroking their charges higher to a mind-numbing new rhythm.

Light gasps and soft moans passed between them, hips bucking to sporadic, delirious jolts of pleasure. They murmured each other's names under shallow ventilations, tattered with want and need but not quite allowing the finish just yet. Primus, it felt amazing. Rung's valve clenched, slick and empty and needing, craving the fullness of a spike—_Maximus's_ spike—inside him. Scrap, he wanted it badly. To sink down on him until they both overloaded. But he was smarter than that, and Maximus was enormous. They had to take this step-by-step for both his own physical wellbeing and Fortress Maximus's psychological welfare.

"Maximus," Rung panted. A charge of white electricity raced up his nodes right to his Spark, jarring him aware of just how close he was.

Ventilations heavy and strained, Maximus panted and rocked his hips in time with Rung's, gripping their spikes until the friction sent licks of pleasure leaping between them. The charges streamed up his Spark in currents of merciless ecstasy, building higher and higher as his cooling units roared, trying and failing to dispel the heat beneath his plates. He locked eyes with Rung, and seeing him in such pleasure—lips slightly parted and optics dim—made Maximus's processor glitch and moan and tense as his charge broke without warning, sending him over.

Heat, pressure, and a great well of electricity flared outward in every direction and his vents hitched, optics whiting out. Maximus's jaw unhinged and arched his neck back, moaning out as his thoughts fritzed and blanked under a wave of euphoria; his spike burst a jet of transfluid into his servo, trembling and shuddering and venting heavily, Rung still and shivering in his lap.

Fortress Maximus came back to himself piece-by-piece. The awareness of his body, overcharged circuits firing involuntary twitches and plates popping and crackling with heat, fans sputtering in an attempt to dispel it before his systems could be affected. That pressure that'd been surrounding his Spark, that clouded the forefront of his processor since being awoken, it felt . . . far away. It was still there, but distant, unimportant.

Cognition came back lastly and Rung was sitting motionless in his lap, spike still hard against his depressurized one, and Maximus was suddenly distraught to realize it.

"You didn't . . . ?" he began to say but couldn't get the words to form.

Rung's smile was there, genuine and understanding.

"This wasn't about me, Maximus," Rung said. His expression was dubious, so Rung stretched up and pecked a kiss on Fortress Maximus's lips to show he meant it. "Your wellness is what's important to me."

He released him and backed away enough so their arrays weren't touching anymore and began tucking himself away. But Maximus disagreed. He caught Rung's hands and took the smaller mech by surprise when he turned him over and laid him back against the berth padding.

"Maximus, what are you—?" Rung started to say.

"I wouldn't be a good partner if I couldn't return the favor," Fortress Maximus cut him off. Digits slid down to part his thighs again and rubbed circles around his valve rim, slick and hot and clenching on air, spike throbbing with need and still highly charged. Rung gasped and chewed his lip to keep his vocals down, but he couldn't stop a reflexive buck into his touch.

Rung stammered, "Not if you aren't u-up for it, Maximus. You're still recovering. You shouldn't s-strain yourself."

"I'll be fine, Rung," he said, catching the doctor by surprise with the rumble of his own name. He placed his lips onto the smaller mech's brow to hide the way the corners of his mouth began to curl. "For the first time in a long while, I think I'll be all right."

Struck, Rung gaped at Maximus's chin and then squeezed his optics shut to fend off a flow of lubricant attempting to leak out. He rubbed it away as Maximus backed off, and he reached up, took his helm in his hands, and leaned up to kiss him.

"O-okay, Maximus," he murmured, fighting back the heat in his face plates, "okay. Okay."

Fortress Maximus nodded, pinched Rung's chin between his thumb and forefinger, and drew him back into another kiss.

* * *

[Shit, this is long enough to be its own damn fic. _Way_ longer than intended, so sorry about that. Hope you didn't mind, though. :) ]


	9. MTMTE – Quark&Nightbeat

**Pairing**: Quark/Nightbeat

**Summary**: Even friends need a good romp once in a while~

**Rating**: M (smut, sticky, NSFW)

[I found this awesome gorgeous beautiful incredible ohmygod amazing luscious bit of fanart (Link in profile!) and holy shit my hands did a thing and I have absolutely no regrets whatsoever~]

* * *

"_Ngh_. . . . N-Night—!"

"_Mmnph_, fraggit, Quark," Nightbeat panted, shuddering with ecstasy as the slim scientist rode him. The white and teal spinal panels rippled as he moved, and Nightbeat was mesmerized. "If you aren't the damn sexiest thing Primus put on this planet. . . ."

He trailed off, his train of thought disappearing in a burst of static. Quark shivered, barely able to register his companion's words over the roar of his charge pounding in his audios. His faceplates flushed hot with energon, gnawing his lower lip plate. He rolled his hips back, moaning his companion's name. An embarrassing cross of flattery and arousal radiated off his plates, but he had given himself a task and he wasn't about to let a few sweet nothings incapacitate him.

And it was so much more fun not to let Nightbeat see him. He loved to twist all manners of expressions from the normally stoic scientist, so much so that to do so became somewhat of a game. And during interface, Quark wasn't about to play fair.

He arched forward to rock his hips back, spinal column bowing out and rolling, hilting and grinding Nightbeat's spike into his valve. A burst of electrical discharge crackled from his overwhelmed dampeners and Quark gasped.

Nightbeat cursed, grabbing Quark suddenly by the hips.

Startled, the white mech stopped. He looked back. "Y-you okay?" he asked, concerned the discharge may have hurt him.

But Nightbeat's face read of everything _but_ pain. Helm tipped back, dim hue of his ruby visor iridescent and emanating complete rapture, and lip plates curved and parted in a smirk that said everything was good in the galaxy.

"_Ngh,_ frag, Quark, don't _stooop,"_ he slurred as soon as he could form a coherent sentence. He pulled his lithe companion back at the same time canted his hips forward, wringing a pleased little whine from the other. "Primus, do that _again_ . . . !"

It didn't take much to get that level of charge back up, and his dampeners began to fritz again. An annoying circuitry malfunction Quark had meant to fix eons ago had his job in research not occupied so much of his focus, but now it seemed more of a tolerable quirk than any manner of hindrance whatsoever.

Nightbeat groaned, vocals thick with pleasure as licks of blue static leapt across their arrays. He gripped his hip in one hand, smearing a bit of lubricant left over from earlier that night, and guided Quark back into him as he reclined. He felt digits squeeze and pinch his knees, sending a few tiny jolts down to make his pedes twitch. Sexy little hellion, Nightbeat thought. _Mmmm,_ and Primus what a view~ All the best scenery in the universe couldn't compare to that sweet little bend in Quark's lower back, the way he gyrated his hips and tipped his helm back, venting hot air through his intake and making the most devilishly wonderful sounds.

"Careful, Night. Idol worship is a sin in most cultures," Quark murmured, glancing over his shoulder. Optics half-lidded, there was a gleam in them, but to Nightbeat it may as well have been a glimpse into Heaven.

Woops. He'd said that aloud, had he?

Nightbeat smirked. He captured his hips on the back thrust and leaned over him, grinding his hips into his aft until paint transfers wholly marred every square inch of their arrays. Static electricity jumped between them and Quark moaned out, clutching Nightbeat's shoulder for balance. His spike ground into so many nodes all at once it was almost too much to handle. _Mph!_ _Oh yes~ Yeessss!_

"Don't you know, babe," Nightbeat murmured. Like velvet pleasure on his audios and liquid heat pouring down his spine all at once. "There's no such thing as sin in making love."

* * *

[These guys need more love.]


	10. MTMTE – Whirl&Cyclonus (2)

**Pairing**: Whirl/Cyclonus

**Summary**: Nothing gets the Spark goin' like fragging the ever living scrap outta' the mech you want dead~ (continuation of chpt 2?)

**Rating**: M (light bondage, more wonderfully consensual hate sex, NSFW, sticky, Whirl)

[For _Koch43_ because OMFG what a wonderful person! She made fanart for chapter 2 and OH MY GOD I CRIED WHEN I SAW IT IT'S SO INCREDIBLE! Link's in profile; go look at it if you haven't already! Everyone needs a little of Cyclonus fragging the scrap out of Whirl in their day~]

* * *

"Oh yeah~ Oh yeah~! That's it, you old scrapheap, that's _it_! _Oooooooh_~! Just like that, _oooh_!" Whirl moaned, angling his helm back, rocking his hips up and down.

Cyclonus grit his dentas and snarled at the unwelcomed onslaught, pulling on the stasis cuffs lashing him to the foot of the berth. Though he would never admit it if asked, he was long passed the stage of resenting this little act and thoroughly into the part where he relished the opportunity to _ruin_ Whirl's valve. Their interface units crashed together, pounding until their panels dented and paint transfers marred more parts of their bodies than either cared to acknowledge. He was torn. Optics fixated on Whirl's throat, divided between the thought of strangling the mech until his intake collapsed or pinning him to the deck and ravishing him into submission. Both would be considerably easier if he had use of his servos.

_Ngh_, but Primus slaggit if he wasn't an incredible frag.

"Stop. Talking. _Whirl_," Cyclonus grated, vents cycling hot air from his intake. His engine roared. He pulled harder at the restraints, willing them to break, but all the struggle earned him was a numbing jolt of energy dampeners down both arms, sapping the glow from his charge.

"The more you struggle, the harder it'll be for you t—_ah! oooooh~_ yeah right there _mmmmngh_~!—o-overload," Whirl crooned as he rocked, driving down on Cyclonus's spike.

Cyclonus growled, system monitors straining with the duration of this punishment. Whirl had already gone through three overloads, not the least bit fazed thanks to some stimulant he claimed to have gotten from Atomizer, but Cyclonus had yet to reach his first. Every time his charge came to a peak, about to overload, the energy dampeners built into the stasis cuffs kicked on and sapped his charge just before it crested, bringing him back down to a maddening state of perpetual arousal.

And it was _rapidly_ getting old.

"Take these off of me, Whirl," the violet mech snarled as too-hot pleasure streaked across his Spark, "or Primus help me I'll—"

"You'll what? Pound me to scrap metal? Tear out my voice box? Shred me to ribbons with your claws?" Whirl goaded, whining pleasurably. Pincers snapped closed around the old warrior's throat, relishing in the red fury radiating from him. Dark optics smoldered with a potent blend of hatred and desire, and Whirl leaned down and _ground_ their panels together. Paint shreds worn all the way down to bare metal, he forcibly hilted himself on his engorged spike, and Whirl murmured into Cyclonus's taut jaw, "_Mmmmnn,_ careful. You might just get me off with such sweet talk. . . . "

"You're sick."

"Yeah. But that gets you hot."

Rivulets of electricity coursed up Cyclonus's frame and Whirl moaned as he utterly ruled those scorching circuits. Vocals thick and optic a curved slit of yellow pleasure, he rocked up and down, driving onto the other's spike both for his own pleasure and Cyclonus's sweet depravation of it.

His frame ached. Cooling vents struggled to keep up with the heat pouring off his internals. It wouldn't break. His charge was too high. Cyclonus vented steam from his intake, dental plates gnashed. Licks of white-hot energy danced through his Spark chamber, fritzed static through his processor, and fogged his optics. Hypersensitive circuitry picked up on the static surges jumping from Whirl's arrays, causing his own to begin to snowball. He was close. Whirl's charge was building, white electricity skittering across his internal nodes and leaping to the old warrior's spike, zapping his charge higher, _higher_.

His engine roared, scorching hot exhaust distorting the air above his intake, and Cyclonus rocked his helm back, bucking to meet Whirl's fervid thrusts, no longer caring. The charge was peaking. Almost—al_most_. The static swirled around his Spark, building, cresting, ready to break—ready to break—so _close_—then a familiar _click_ and _no not now—mnph—not now, not this time, slaggit, not this time not this **time**!_

He grabbed the chain and pulled. Hard. Stray electric runoff shot his circuits and _snap_!

Cyclonus _slammed_ Whirl to the floor. Claws shredded into his plates and he dominated him. Hammering into splayed blue thighs, he chased the tail end of that charge with the sound of Whirl singing in his audios, "Yes, _yes_, oh slag _yeessss_! Frag me into the floor, you slagger, do it! _Oooooh_ _yeeeesssssss_~!"

Cyclonus grabbed hold of his throat with the intent of stifling his vocalizers, but if the curve in his optic was anything to go by Whirl didn't have a care in the world about his intake cutting off. He ravaged the mech under him with more intent to harm than please, and Whirl locked his legs behind Cyclonus's back and rocked into every battering thrust. At last he felt his charge mounting unhindered, and both mechs went over the edge in a brutal explosion of pleasure.

Helm arced back and digging his claws into thigh and throat, Cyclonus snarled his release. Whirl's valve flooded with a scalding rush of too much transfluid, pouring against his mashed ceiling node and trapped by the spike hilted inside him; he whined ecstatically. The mixed gush of fluids poured down his aft and his vision fritzed out for a second, both mechs stunned, still, and waiting for their core functions to recalibrate.

The stimulant in Whirl's system had finally worn itself off and he slumped, exhausted and sore, beneath Cyclonus. Claws released from around his throat and braced against the floor, the violet mech panting, finally allowed to come back down.

"Oh, wow," Whirl slurred, splayed out and cycling hard, the other's heavy spike still imbedded deep in him. "_Ooooh_, that's gonna' leave one slag of a mark. Heh. . . ." He trailed off, chuckling. "Mmmm, you know Cyclonus—don't tell no one I said this, but you're a slaggin' beast of a frag, you know that . . . ?"

Were he in the midst of anything less than a post-overload high, Cyclonus would have just let it drop and left it at that, but he found himself leaning to Whirl's audio nonetheless. He growled, grinding their hips so his half-hard spike grated against pleasure-buzzed internal nodes; with a wonton little cry, Whirl shivered at the unwelcome streak of arousal and pushed up to meet it.

"I still have every intention of killing you, Whirl," Cyclonus rumbled. "Don't ever forget that."

"I know, junkyard, I know," Whirl hummed, optic curved. "You, too."

* * *

[Making myself ship things I never thought I'd ship one fic at a time~]


End file.
